CJ , M * ^ N ST. QUARTERLY for him. He wishes I would — die! And go away. It’s not altogether true, but he made me wonder if I should really be there. I asked him outright, "Am I complicating your life?” He replied, “ No.” I began to understand a few things about Raul; His skin is fair, almost white, and his eyes are gray or gray-green. Of course, he feels ashamed. In comparison with the others, he doesn’t look like a Mexican. Also, he is the youngest in his family. He must take orders from the other brothers and his father. He will never inherit the farm. The land isn’t big enough to support that many children. All Raul can do is get a job in town, hard work at low wages. In contrast, he can pass for a gringo in a border town. In fact that might be a thing of status — that he looks like he’s of the other side. He looks like an American. Christmas Day On Christmas day, we feast and feast. The father says the farm is rich, not in money, but in food. It’s true. They love to eat. Homemade tostados. Lettuce, tomatoes, hard corn shells, hot sauce, a sweet salted meat they call “ buffalo.” Bean, tortillas, milk. Cucumbers. The special dinner of peppery chicken stew. All the relatives show up, all the brothers with their families. Raul has at least four brothers. Daniel, the oldest, is powerful, huge, curious about me. We play volleyball. He tries to get me drunk on strong tequila with hot sauce and V-8 juice. It burns my gut. Daniel jokes with me about coming to work in Oregon, like Raul. He realizes how little Raul has to show for two years of time spent in the U.S. He senses Raul goes there to escape work. I take pictures with my camera of all the kids, the relatives. I'll send them the developed photos. They are pleased, clown, give me the v sign, hold up bottles of booze. What a wonderful family! Everyone seems happy and contented, as we say good-bye, and the golden light of sunset fades, from behind the cathedral to the west. The question is, Will Raul go with me on my travels to other parts of Mexico? Two Men Can 't Love Each O th e r I beg. I plead. To make a long story short, he won’t travel with me. I tell him I have plenty of money. Sergio can come along. He won’t do it. We squat in the dust near the railroad tracks. The family has sent Raul along as my baggage boy. Little do they know! I want to put my arm around him, hug him, before I leave. I try to explain in barely fluent Spanish what he means to me. I try to joke with him. I pick up a pebble and ask him if he loves me that much. “ No,” he says. I pick up a tinier piece of earth and say, “ Do you love me this much?” He blurts out, “ Nada.” Nothing. And my brain flashes to a couple of complicated conversations we had at the farm. He told me, “ Two men can't love each other. We can only be friends.” I’m upset. In the last five days, I’ve barely had a chance to touch him or be close. We’ re always surrounded by the others. Even now, his brother is watching us. As I get ready to board the train, Raul and I do an elaborate Chicano handshake. His last words, though, are straight from the heart. “ Nos vemos.” We’ll see each other. Swaying and rattling on the tracks, the train is swallowed in the darkness of the flat Mexican countryside. Mysterious and sad. Almost in penance, I am squatting on the floor, next to my suitcase, trying to blank out everything and go to sleep. When? The Trip Seeing Mexico was exhilarating and illuminating. I soon quit worrying about Raul! The emptiness, expanse and wildness, just slightly inhabited nature of the landscape is spectacular! I am intoxicated. Mexico is huge, with spacious airy vistas. Purple mountains, winding green rivers, and dry forests. It would be freedom to take a horse and rifle and travel across it. Guadalajara is wonderful. Shrubs are shaped by gardeners into animal forms. This flat city contains monuments, cathedrals, plazas, a two- level bus station, many parks, the largest public market in Mexico with candy, leather, silver jewelry, herbal potions, you name it. Smog was in the air from hundreds of buses. The food was mouth-wateringly delicious. Go there for “ pelatas,” popsicles of natural fruit flavors, coconut, strawberry, guayaba, exotic flavors. Long thin loaves of bread taste better than real French. Near the Street of Mdriachis I bought tortas, beef or pork sandwiches with a spicy sauce, for ten pesos. I sank my teeth into the food and washed it down with cold Dos Equis beer. I love Mexican beer! On the bus ride to Guanajuato we passed colonial towns, with ornate cathedrals and elegant graveyards. The road should have been a freeway, but it wasn’t. It looked like it was perpetually being worked on, with backed up traffic, dust and bulldozers. This part of Mexico is developing fast. New factories and housing developments crowd the old towns. Nuevo Leon, a new city, is populous, nondescript, without architectural character. I ask myself, How are all these people going to be given housing and jobs? Guanajuato is “ the city of poets.” El Grito! The cry 6f Mexican independence from Spain occurred here, in 1824. It's enchanting, European, like nothing I've seen so far. Antique and colonial — theaters, university, cathedrals, parks, buildings of pinkish sandstone, stone streets, monuments, and an underground stone highway are crammed into the green valley. The market building with cupola and spire reminded me of the Crystal Palace in London. I buy souvenirs and presents for Raul, his family, and my friends. Dirty clay fingers and toes on key chains. Skulls with rolling eyes. Indian embroidered blouses. Tiny ceramic cups. A clay coffin with body on which a Mexican boy inscribes your name and how you died. “ Walt Remembrance of Guanajuato died of poetry.” Theologically I am opposed to Catholicism, but the esthetics and OPEN Weekdays 11-6 Saturday 1-6 AVALON ANTIQUES VINTAGE CLOTHES 318 SW 9th 224-7156 4
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